Snixy
by mad-cow-mama
Summary: Santana tries to tame their new kitten. (Thank you again to the amazing terriblemuriel, wolfgirl: the alpha of betas, who continued to beta for me while on vacation. Big hugs, girl!)


Snixy

If only it were Lord Tubbington. She and LT had an understanding. He was a ghetto gato and got her. But this—this staggering, swaggerless scaredy-cat, this mangy rag-earred ragamuffin—she has nothing in common with her. Nothing.

Lady Elaine Fairchilde needs a bath. She has flea-bite scabs all over her. She's malnourished and needs shots. But Brittany is away for the weekend, and Santana can't catch the cat. She cornered her once, but Snixy (as Santana calls her—she can't imagine why Britt named the cat after Kurt) scratched and bit her until she dropped the nasty thing.

Brittany keeps saying, "You think she's a bad kitty, but she's not."

The cat needs love and care and attention, but how? She's always hiding, and when she's not hiding, she's hissing and biting. It's hard to love something that hurts you.

But Brittany's always been able to.

Santana remembers how Brittany taught her to get comfortable with Lord Tubbington.

_"He'll like you best if you go into the next room and play the blues. You could sing the blues. He'd probably like that even better."_

So, she goes into the living room, pointedly ignoring Snixy, and puts on some Lady Day for Lady Elaine. She lolls onto the couch and starts humming along to Solitude. She grabs a book, any book, from the table and starts to read—Britt says you really have to read, you can't just pretend—while continuing to hum.

When the song ends, it shuffles and gets Amy Winehouse singing Teach Me Tonight. Santana sings along. From the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of fur across the room.

_"He likes to play hard-to-get," she'd said, "Give him the side-eye instead of direct eye-contact. Narrowed eyes are come-hither eyes to cats."_

She ignores the kitty.

Santana settles in and actually starts absorbing her book. Her singing drops to humming, then drops out entirely, as she continues turning pages.

When her playlist reaches its end, she's asleep, the book splayed across her chest. And when she awakens, Lady Elaine Fairchilde, aka Snixy, is curled up, purring, on top of her book.

How can they move forward?

Santana's going to have to keep in mind her own agenda for the cat while simultaneously letting go of it.

_"Remember, cats are predators. They don't like their senses obscured. And they like to feel they're in control," Brittany had said._

Slowly, gently, she slides her arm out from under the book, and gently, slowly, speaking low, she places her hand on Lady's crown.

_"Cats who've lived on their own for a while tend to have touch issues."_

Brittany could touch LT any way she wanted, but Santana had to restrict herself to stroking the top of his head, toward his tail only, to show her respect for his boundaries. Once his tenants had figured that out, their lives became much easier, according to Britt.

Murmuring, "Poor Puss-Puss, you must be tired of all those flea-bites. They must itch something awful. I can help get those nasty scabs off," she continues stroking until a purr slips out of the scrawny cat.

This is Santana's cue to sneak her fingernail under a scab and test it. So long as the purring continues, she can pop off the ready scabs. There are so many just around Snixy's ears. It's no wonder she's a cranky kitty.

"Kitt-Kitt," she purrs, "I have just the thing for you. You don't have to do it right now, but it's gonna help you if you do. Think of it as going to the spa. I bet you clean up real nice, huh?"

Santana reminds herself that the combing can come later.

She sneaks her hand down Lady's back. The purring persists, but the tail starts twitching. The cat's eyes stay closed, but her ears lie back a little. She's a mass of mixed messages at the moment.

She's a cat. It's her prerogative.

_"Figure out how he's hurt and love that. And remember, sometimes he bites out of passion. It's not always rage."_

Santana looks closer. They don't even know how old Lady E is. They don't know how long she was on the street. They'll never know what she's survived. But she's a survivor. That's clear. She's been hurt. Obviously. And she's healed up all on her own. She doesn't need Santana and Brittany, but maybe… maybe she deserves to have them. She strokes the kitty all the way to her tail. Lady Elaine Fairchilde starts drooling.

It's kind of disgusting how the drool pools on her chest, but she knows her shirt will absorb it. It will wash.

Something washes over her. Maybe it's relief, maybe it's warmth, maybe fondness. Could it be love for little Snixy, the nasty, nasty cat? But this cat isn't nasty. This cat is… warm. Purring. Freakin' drooling. Lady Elaine starts rubbing her face on Santana's face. It tickles, and she sneezes. The cat jumps off her. Square one.

_"You have to be patient. Sometimes it's disappointing, sometimes it hurts, but you have to let him find his path to you."_

She swallows her disappointment and goes back to her book. She cues up some Tina Turner. Then she pauses.

"Lady E," she says, "Imma tell you something. It's really important." She waits, just until at the edge of her periphery she sees the kitty's face turn toward her.

"You gotta watch out for people on street corners who want to give you personality tests. They're Scientologists. They only treat celebrities right, and _2 Girls, 1 Cat_ wasn't enough to get Lord Tubbington Celebrity status. When he tried to escape from them, the Scientologists disappeared him. Even Tom Cruise couldn't get him back."

Lady Elaine Fairchilde lurks just long enough for Santana to know who's initiating, then hops back onto the couch by Santana's feet. She sneaks up Santana's body, as if Santana can't tell she's there. She makes herself comfortable on Santana's chest.

Lady Elaine Fairchilde peers intently into Santana's eyes. She knows. She knows.


End file.
